


11:42

by goldilocked



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Human Bill Cipher, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Older Dipper Pines, Pre-Slash, nothing actually happens but it's there, stay safe kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24915025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldilocked/pseuds/goldilocked
Summary: Dipper's roommate is many things: handsome, sharp-tongued, absolutely insufferable.He's also not nearly careful enough.Bill's a good-looking guy--areallygood-looking guy, amends the part of Dipper's mind not concerned with trifling things like pride and integrity--and a frown tugs at Dipper's lips as a troubling thought occurs to him.Bill would know to watch his drink. Right?
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Dipper Pines, Bill Cipher/Dipper Pines
Comments: 10
Kudos: 234





	11:42

**Author's Note:**

> please don't ask me what this is because i don't know either
> 
> apparently i'm all about hurt/comfort now. who knew? def not me; i literally sat down to write something else and this just kinda happened and i woke up today with this on my laptop

It’s—Dipper spares a glance at the corner of his laptop screen—11:34 at night, and Bill is out partying.

Not like Dipper misses the company. Quite the opposite: in the rare silence, he’s managed to make blessed headway on his Abnormal Psychology essay, the big one he’s been putting off and putting off and putting off until tonight, a whopping two days before it’s due. Normally, he’d say he’s grateful for the peace and quiet in which to have an academic meltdown.

The only thing is, Dipper has been meaning to bug Bill about the dishes that have been slowly piling up in the sink. The ones Bill keeps “forgetting” to do. The ones he’s been “forgetting” to do for the past three days. And Dipper can’t exactly bring it up with Bill oh-so-conveniently out of the dorm.

Sometimes, Dipper thinks, scowling at a clunky sentence on his screen as he backspaces with perhaps more vigour than strictly necessary, he thinks his roommate would pass Abnormal Psych with flying colours.

There’s a thump at the door, like a drunken knock, and Dipper doesn’t so much as glance up from his laptop. It’s still early for Bill to be back— _early_ being a relative term to them; there’s a reason that, despite getting on each other’s nerves, the two of them have lasted as roommates—and if Bill’s already managed to get shitfaced enough to have to go home, the struggle to fit his key in the lock will probably do him good. Sober him up before Dipper has to deal with him.

Another heavy thud. This one sounds less like a knock, and Dipper pauses his typing. He strains his ears in the silence, but there’s nothing—then a giggle, a sound like jeans scratching against the door, and _nope._

Dipper pushes himself off his bed, inwardly groaning. Oh, so _this_ is why Bill is back early. Well, too bad; Dipper has _work_ to do. Besides, he was home first: he’s not going to let Bill kick him out of the dorm just because he brought someone home, and if that makes Dipper a killjoy or a square, then Bill can find some better insults—and, while he’s at it, a sense of _timing_ would be lovely, too.

Dipper swings the door open, poised to say just that, but the sight that greets him makes him stop dead.

“What,” he says.

There’s someone in the hallway he doesn’t recognize. The guy’s got close-cropped hair, and a fleece with a douchey collar and a dark patch near the zipper that looks like it’ll be a stain in the morning. He resembles any other college student on the tipsy side of wasted, except for the crop of gleaming blond hair over his shoulder that Dipper can identify as Bill’s even before he sees Bill’s face.

Bill is draped over the guy, almost—and normally Dipper would flush and stutter something about getting a room, but his roommate’s expression is disconcertingly vacant. His head rests on the guy’s shoulder in a way that seems more exhausted than flirtatious. One of the Stained Fleece's hands was cupping Bill’s ass appreciatively, but when the door swings open, the hand skates up to the small of Bill’s back, so quickly Dipper wonders if he imagined it.

Stained Fleece pauses when he sees Dipper. Dipper’s only five foot ten, and wearing a battered crewneck with comfortable sweatpants, and his hair is undoubtably a mess from how often he’s been raking his fingers through it, but at the sight of him, an expression almost akin to apprehension flashes across Stained Fleece’s face. It’s quickly smoothed over, replaced with an easy smile.

“Sorry, man,” he says, and even though he reeks of booze, he’s not slurring his words at all. “Wrong door.”

“No,” says Dipper, slowly. His eyes are on Bill, on how heavily he’s leaning on Stained Fleece. He hasn’t snapped anything about Dipper cockblocking or killing the mood; he hasn’t even acknowledged him. There’s something not right with the glassy look in his eyes. “This is the right room. That’s my roommate.”

And if Dipper was imagining it before, he definitely isn’t now: there’s another flicker of worry. Stained Fleece laugh awkwardly, shifting his grip on Bill. The limp way Bill lets himself be manhandled, the way he seems to dangle off his arm like a ragdoll, makes Dipper feel like he should step forward to catch him. He looks… out of it. _Really_ out of it.

“Whoops. This is awkward. You know how these things”—Stained Fleece gestures, as if to encapsulate _college parties_ with a hand—“can get. We’ll just take this to my place, huh?” He turns his head, grinning widely, and presses his lips to the side of Bill’s neck, so he’s murmuring against the smooth skin. For some reason, it makes Dipper’s stomach turn. “You still down?”

Bill gives no answer that Dipper can hear, but Stained Fleece straightens up as if he has. One of his thumbs is stroking lecherous circles just above Bill’s belt, and as he shifts, Bill makes a vaguely surprised noise. He lifts his head slowly, like it requires intense effort, but Stained Fleece’s arm tightens round his waist, tugging him closer and off-balance. Dipper’s eyes may be sore from staring at a screen, but he’s not _blind._

Bill’s a good-looking guy—a _really_ good-looking guy, amends the part of Dipper’s mind not concerned with trifling things like pride and integrity—and a frown tugs at his lips as a troubling thought occurs to him.

Bill would know to watch his drink. Right?

As Stained Fleece turns to head down the hallway, Bill stumbles over his own legs, almost pitching into the wall. Stained Fleece chuckles fondly, but Bill just looks confused and tired, lost and a bit scared, and that’s enough for Dipper.

“I think,” he says, stepping out of the doorway, not letting the door swing shut behind him, “you should probably go.”

Stained Fleece stops, but doesn’t turn to look at Dipper. “Don’t worry, we’re going,” he says with another of those awkward chuckles. “We won’t keep you up. Midterms, eh?”

“No. I think _you_ should go.”

Stained Fleece turns, slowly. “Pardon?”

“I think,” repeats Dipper, just as slowly, narrowing his eyes, “that you should drop my roommate off and go home.”

Stained Fleece draws himself up. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re suggesting—”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” says Dipper coolly, voice remarkably steady for how fast his heart is pounding: Stained Fleece isn’t particularly burly, but _yikes,_ is he tall. “I just think he’s already had a long night.” He shoots him a tight smile. “Looks like he’s a lot to drink.”

He can see Stained Fleece forming a denial that dies on his lips; can see him hesitate as it dawns on him. Because. Well.

If Bill _hasn’t_ had a lot to drink, why does he look like he’s about to pass out where he stands?

“Yeah. Good call,” Stained Fleece finally grinds out. Dipper hates giving the scumbag an out, but he hates the thought of him dragging Bill, flushed and complacent, to some motel room more. Stained Fleece’s laughter is clipped as he says, “Jeez, gotta feel bad for the guy’s mother. With an _upstanding_ roommate like yourself, there must be nothing left for her to do.”

He releases his hold on Bill all at once, turning on a heel and stalking down the hallway, and Dipper jumps forward to steady Bill as he staggers dizzily without the support. He twitches when Dipper loops an arm under his shoulders, and Dipper is sure that without whatever that asshole dumped in his system, that would’ve been a full-body jerk. “Work with me here, Bill,” he mutters as he guides Bill into the room. He shuts the door behind them and, after a moment of consideration, locks it. Just in case.

Bill looks at him as if for the first time. His irises are almost black, and his eyes have difficulty focusing, but after a moment, he slurs, “’ine Tree?” Then, with a gust of air like a relieved sigh: _“Pine Tree."_

Moving Bill to his bed is easy: he’s completely pliant, collapsing onto the mattress when Dipper leads him to it, and Dipper’s stomach gives a queasy kick when he thinks about what Fleece could have done to him. _Anything._ Dipper’s worst suspicions are confirmed when Bill lifts a hand to clumsily rub at his eyes, grimacing in a way that seems unintentional. “M’ head’s weird,” he tells Dipper plaintively.

_Fucking piece of shit,_ Dipper thinks viciously at the guy who better not still be in their building. He’s lucky Dipper hasn’t already called campus police on his sorry, drink-spiking ass.

Tentatively, he lowers himself to the bed next to Bill. “How do you feel?” he asks, feeling a bit stupid; he doesn’t know what to do with someone who’s been roofied, and he half-expects Bill to sneer something like, _Never better! Nothing like a little GHB to loosen a guy up._ But all Bill does is hum something indistinct against the sheets. His gaze is fixed on the hand Dipper uses to gingerly take his temperature—hey, it can’t _hurt,_ right?—and as Dipper moves to pull it back, he reaches up, brow furrowed in inordinate concentration, and tugs it back to him.

Dipper blinks and reattempts to extract his hand. Bill holds fast, though, pulling it against him. Dipper sighs. “Bill,” he tries to explain, “you need to let go.”

If anything, that makes Bill’s grasp tighten. He turns his face into Dipper’s arm, looking up at him with eyes half-lidded with sleepiness. Drugged as he is, his grasp is weak: Dipper could break free easily.

…but he should probably keep an eye on Bill anyway, he admits to himself. And if Bill wants to hold on to him, it’s not like it’ll hurt anything. Maybe it should worry him how rapidly that's becoming his personal motto.

Dipper checks the time on his phone:11:42. He thinks of his essay, sitting unfinished on his laptop, then sighs and settles back against the headboard, free hand resting absently on Bill’s back.

“Tomorrow,” he tells the top of Bill’s head sternly, because he and Bill never say goodnight, “we are going to have a conversation about the dishes.”

Tonight, though, he’s going to make sure Bill’s okay.

**Author's Note:**

> rereading the dialogue, apparently my Canadian-ness shines through when i’m tired, bc “eh” and “pardon”?? i hardly know her


End file.
